


Expectations

by cortexinthevortex



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, it goes wrong as per usual, the Doctor and Clara attempt to have a short holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexinthevortex/pseuds/cortexinthevortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't even know what this is, I wrote it at 2 am on a sugar high. The Doctor and Clara get stuck in the TARDIS instead of visiting a planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

"Quilliac, Clara, is the single most brilliant planet in this universe. It has jungles, beaches, stunning sunsets that quite literally knock your socks off and a sometimes-but-not-always-friendly monkey population that have a weakness for, believe it or not, roast potatoes." The Doctor babbled as he swung on the banisters, teetering dangerously as he launched himself across the console room and landed on both feet, polished shoes smacking uncomfortably loudly on the metal floor.

Clara tilted her head back, arms braced on the main console, and tracked the movement of the whirling doo-hickey (she could never remember the name of the thing) on top of the time rotor. She hadn't been listening- only one word in twenty that came out of the Doctor's mouth when he was an excitable mess made sense- but one particular phrase stuck in her head.

"Roast potatoes?" She left the question hanging in the air. Her eyes still followed the flat cylinders on the ceiling. Maybe they were hypnotising her.

"Sunday best." The Doctor confirmed, throwing her a paper bag. It hit her chest effectively knocking her out of her stupor and forcing her to catch it quickly else its contents spill across the floor, to rest in dark corners that they would never see the light of day again. He rubbed his hands together eagerly, hunching over a tad as he made his way past her to the TARDIS viewscreen. "Oh, those monkeys are gonna love us, Clara. To them, a roast potato is the equivalent of your...um..." He snapped his fingers for inspiration "alcohol." He widened his eyes and ducked his head.

"Monkeys get drunk on roast potatoes?" She said incredulously, dumping the bag on an empty flight seat in favour of sliding in her socks to him and bumping his shoulder with her elbow.

"You'd be surprised. Although, thinking about it, that probably wasn't the best analogy." He patted her head and kissed the top. "You might want to put on some shoes, we'll be there in, ooh, forty seconds give or take."

"Gotcha. Sandal weather, or is today not a beach day?" She pouted. She would love to get some proper sun on her skin (the last time they had visited anywhere tropical, they had had a close shave with an unnaturally large frog's stomach and swamp slime, leaving no time to get a decent tan like she had been promised in the first place) and come back to Earth bronzed from an authentic alien sun, not stained dirty orange from a tacky tanning bed.

"Whatever's fine, we'll have enough time to do both the jungle and the beach."

Right. So helpful.

Clara paid a flying visit to the TARDIS wardrobe, trying on three variations of sandal and settling for her old red converse instead. Knowing her luck the jungle would be dense and tough to navigate, and she didn't want to have to deal with rubbish shoes as well as a possible roast potatoe crisis, which, playing the scenario fully in her mind, Clara envisioned ending with running from a horde of angry disappointed apes. She tied the last lace as the TARDIS came to a juddering halt, body swaying to keep her balance on impact. She grinned, and jogged back through the winding, mechanical corridors of the TARDIS back to the console room, and another adventure.

It was empty.

"Doctor?" She called, unconcerned. He often popped off randomly prior to them leaving, normally to check a component it had sounded 'off' during takeoff. The bag of roast potatoes was still wedged inbetween two levers, if a little skewed from the force of their landing. Clara wiggled the paper bag free and stuffed it in her coat pocket.

The Doctor didn't answer, and a speedy inspection of the upper and lower levels of the console room proved the TARDIS to be completely devoid of any Time Lords. She sighed and, assuming he had gone ahead without her in a boyish burst of excitement, strode to the door and opened it. 

A wall of dense brown met her. She blinked, shut the door, took a step back, then looked for the Doctor.

He was still missing.

Tentatively, she opened the door again. She briefly wondered if the foreign object currently blocking the only exit had eaten him- maybe the brown was the colour of one of those monkey's fur, and in an unfortunate turn of events they had mistaken the Time Lord for one of their beloved roast potatoes. He had the right skin colour, she supposed. However, it didn't look like fur. She poked at it gingerly with her index finger, frowning when the brown stuff came away in damp clumps that clung to her skin and smeared itself across her palms when she tried to scrape it off. Hesitantly, Clara mimicked what the Doctor would do when confronted with a new substance, and sniffed it. 

Dirt. She almost laughed- they had simply landed facing the steep side of a hill, or maybe even a quarry. She dug her fingers in further, finding several roots of plants and trees. So they were in the jungle then, she thought as she cleared some of the earth from the bottom of the wall, exposing the large, twisted roots of one of the trees presumably above them; the Doctor had simply landed them in the wrong place. At first, she was confused- weren't they supposed to be at a beach?- but that soon gave way to panic as the wall of dirt that had been pressing against the TARDIS doors gave way under her probing touch and promptly crumbled, dumping a truckload of soil and roots into her hair, across her face and tumbling into the nooks and crevices of her clothes. She closed her eyes, gathering her patience, and shut the door again slowly. 

"Clara?" The Doctor re-entered the control room, waving a pair of sunglasses that must have been from the 1950s, at least, and tucking a rolled up picnic blanket under one arm. "There you are. I found a picnic blanket- was hoping to get a basket for us too for lunch, you know, but the TARDIS has the grumps and refused to make sandwiches. Never mind though, eh, I'm sure we could ask the monkeys if there are any cafes around-"

"Doctor."

"-yes you're absolutely right that is a ridiculous idea- we'll ask the mermaids instead." 

"Mermaids?" Clara asked, temporarily distracted from the block of dirt outside, which was only not collapsing on top of them because of the sturdy wooden doors holding it up. As it was, Clara could hear the wood creaking as the mass shifted it's weight against it, as if knocking to get in. 

"I use the term Mermaids loosely- they're an advanced evolution of humans, not with fins, but webbed feet. Six toes each, brilliant fishermen. They'll give us some to fry if we do them a favour."

"What kind of favour?"

"Keeping the monkeys away, normally, which is partly why we have the potatoes." His eyes did a quick sweep of the control room, then returned to her. "Speaking of which, where are they?"

Clara pulled the bag out of her pocket. It was covered in dirt, although it hadn't managed to get past the sealant and effect the potatoes themselves. She attempted to brush some off, but only succeeded in transferring more from her palm to the paper. The Doctor looked at the muddied paper, to her hands, then back to her, noticing the flakes of dirt stuck to her and piled around her feet at the same time. Anticipating his next question, Clara raised an eyebrow and opened the TARDIS doors again. 

The Doctor blew air into his cheeks and stepped forward. Luckily, the position of the door had forced the dirt back into the hill again, and none came crashing down on them. Clara moved out of the danger zone just in case, stepping around the Doctor as he dropped the blanket and potatoes on the floor and moved for a closer look. 

"Right, okay then. I knew the power had gone out, and we may have gotten a bit turned around on landing, but..." He frowned, patting the soil with one hand and balancing his sunglasses on top of his head with the other. He dug his fingers in, pulling out a hand full of dirt and letting it escape through his fingers, adding to the pile on the floor. He turned around, licking his fingers and grimacing at the taste. "Definitely jungle, almost certainly Quilliac. Although-" he licked again "- it sort of also tastes like you, Clara. Had you opened the door before I saw you?" 

She rolled her eyes. Here she was, covered head to toe in damp, uncomfortable dirt, surrounded by piles of the stuff, and the Doctor was asking if she had opened the door. Typical. She began to thoroughly sass him, but before she could get a single word out the dirt appeared to tremble behind the Doctor. She shouted a warning, but it was too late- no sooner had the words left her mouth the wall collapsed completely, burying him in a mound of earth taller than him. A single red flower poked out of the top, waving in the aftermath and looking far too pleased with itself. 

Clara reached up, and plucked it free. 

The mound trembled and the Doctor clambered out the top, shaking his head and sending mud clumps flying. Clara laughed, hand coming up to cover her mouth self-consciously.

"Ompfh ompfh omfph." Complained the Doctor, wagging his finger at her chidingly. 

"Sorry, what was that?" She said innocently, smiling up at him in amusement. He glared at her and spat dirt on the floor, shoulders hunched in disgust.

"You knew that was coming!" He accused. 

She laughed, doubling over at the wounded puppy look he was giving her. 

"Clara! Look at me," he flapped his arms pathetically, "I'm covered in dirt."

"So am I." 

"Not helping."

He pouts. She steps over, laughter fading to giggling, and threads the stem of the flower through his hair. She tweaks it until it folds behind his ears, pink with embarrassment, and the petals rest in his parting. 

"Come on," she sighs, searching the cleanest part of his cheek and laying a kiss there, "let's get you cleaned up." 

***

"Checkmate."

"What?" 

The Doctor pointed to his rook and his queen, who had been slowly but surely trapping Clara's defenceless king for over five minutes. She'd been able to foil his attempts with a bishop to varying degrees of success, but once she had lost it to one of his pawns (an amateurish mistake, she admits, she should have seen that one coming) there was no hope. Conceding defeat, Clara reluctantly toppled her king over on the chessboard in a gesture of surrender and folded her arms across her chest, huffing. The Doctor puffed out his chest in pride. 

"Told you I was better than you." He said childishly. 

Clara felt like punching him. She settled for a suitably cross glare instead, flicking her wet hand towel at him as she unwrapped her hair from the turban she had twisted it into and rubbed the wet strands, channeling her anger into something worthwhile. The Doctor's hair was soaking wet as well, but he seemed not to mind or even notice the droplets falling from his disappointingly flat quiff onto his shoulders, staining his fresh white shirt and smart black trousers. She dried the ends of her hair in record time, then threw him the towel. He stared down at it, surprised, then draped it over his head and gave it a cautious pat. Clara wondered how he survived by himself on the days that she wasn't on board. 

After he had successfully dragged his legs from the pile of dirt that had trapped them, Clara had led the Doctor to a bathroom and shut him in with the shower, finding another one in the bathroom next door. She realised, too late, that she hadn't found any clean clothes for them to wear afterwards, and had been frozen to the same spot under the hot spray of water for a good five minutes trying to work out how to deliver the Doctor some without accidentally seeing him naked (some scenarios included an unsuspecting, blushing Doctor dropping his towel in surprise when she entered his bathroom with the clothes, having not heard her knocking, the others- although following the same template- ended with a not-so-innocent Doctor and both of them taking a somewhat longer shower together) but she was saved by the TARDIS, who hummed at her neutrally and directed her towards her own clothes ( or replicas of them, at least) that awaited her in a neat pile on the floor.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed; she found herself feeling an odd mixture of both. 

They had both emerged from their respective showers barely minutes after one another, the Doctor dressed more casually than usual, though not by much, and had fallen into easy conversation as they padded down the corridors (the Doctor leaving a trail of damp footprints becoming fainter as they dried) in search of the library. Clara had been indignant upon finding out about the new room- You have a library the size of a small castle, and you didn't think to tell you book obssessed English teacher of a friend that it existed?- which had lead to a brief argument, several light-hearted insults, and a challenge to a game of chess. 

Which was where they were now. 

"That's it. I'm finding a book to read." Clara countered, dramatically passing a hand over her eyes. She shoved the black pieces she had been playing as across the table to him. "You're unbearable: it's official." 

She heard him laugh. Stalking away, she quickly lost herself in the rows and rows of books at her disposal, pulling one down every so often to take a look then either put it back, or add it to the growing pile of volumes climbing it's way up her arms. When she first started she could hear the soft chinks of the chess pieces as the Doctor set them up again then began to play by himself, muttering every once in a while as he considered a particular move. The further she travelled into the library, the fainter those sounds became, until it was just her and the welcome, musty smell of centuries old books. It reminded her of the archive she had once worked in as a broke teenager, the invaluable tomes filled with history that had need sorting and registering. She had hated the admin, but loved the feel of the scriptures and parchment that she had been allowed to handle, albiet wearing a pair of thick velvet gloves to avoid damaging them. 

Clara's stack of books was up to her chest now, nearly at the point of teetering dangerously when she walked, so she made her way carefully back to the Doctor and set them down on the wooden coffee table in front of three cushy fabric sofas. The Doctor was already stretched out along one, hands thrown behind his head, eyes shut. His chess game lay abandoned on the table behind, a defeated king still rolling pitifully on the board where he had surrendered to himself, presumably in disgust. Which was funny, considering that whoever won in that game would have been him. 

She sat down on the sofa adjacent to his, burrowing down into the cushions supporting her back, and cracked open the first book. It was in Gallifreyan, and she admired the symbols for a while before shutting it again and reaching for the next one, this time in English but with a Gallifreyan translation immediately underneath. Something about those runes sparked a memory deep in her consciousness, but it was too blurry to make out properly, and Clara ignored it. She couldn't help the finger, however, that traced the symbols at the same pace that she read the written English words above. The Doctor watched her for a while, silent and appreciative, then grew bored and had a quick catnap. 

Hours later, Clara shut yet another book and dropped it onto her 'read' pile. Looking over at her 'to read' pile, she found at least half again the amount of books left to read. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and stretched her aching muscles. Her stomach growled, punishing her for neglecting it for so long. 

"Hungry?" 

Clara jumped. A cushion fell onto the floor; she grabbed it irritably and threw it at the man responsible. He caught it easily, and added it to the mountain already behind his head. 

"Just asking because, you know, I still have those roast potatoes if you want some." The Doctor shrugged. 

"They'll be cold." She replied, exasperated. "I'll cook something."

He produced the bag from his trouser pocket (she was surprised at first, then realised that she should have been expecting it- he had pockets that were bigger on the inside on his tweed coat, after all) and fished around for a roast potato, popping it into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically. "Fluffy." He commented once he had finished, then promptly ate another. She lifted both her eyebrows at him.

"No."

"Suit yourself. More for me." 

"You're seriously going to eat those." It was more of a statement than a question- she already knew what his answer would be. He defiantly ate another one, chewing deliberately slowly then swallowing. 

"Oh yes, I am."

"I bet they taste disgusting."

"Heavenly." 

"You disgust me."

"Humans smell terrible."

"What I smell like has nothing to do with your eating habits."

"You have driven me to eat these potatoes, Clara." 

"You're driving me to distraction." 

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How?" 

"Your eating habits for one."

"Go on."

"How you dress, like a university professor from the eighties." She stood up and sat on his legs. His knees twitched. 

"Interesting." 

"How you smell." She jibed, expecting to get a rise out of him, only-

He smirked. Clara felt her stomach sink- she knew she had fallen into one of his traps. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to continue at his peril.

"Time Lords, Clara, are designed to smell a particular way when in the company of an inferior species. We're intended to dominate them."

She bristled. "I'm inferior now, am I?"

"Biologically speaking, yes." 

"I hate you."

He grinned. "I hate you too."

***

Clara point blank refused to eat one of his roast potatoes, so the Doctor led her to one of the many TARDIS kitchens and scrounged enough ingredients for her to make a passable mushroom omelette. The moment she scraped the gloopy mess onto her plate, the Doctor shoved a fork into her hand and grabbed the other, pulling her insistently through the TARDIS as she fought to keep her plate balanced and her dinner from falling on the floor.

"Doctor: slow down. Unless you want egg all over your back, in that case do speed up." She said, dragging her steps in an attempt to force him to walk at a pace that her short, human legs could keep up with. It was futile- to compensate, he simply tugged on her hand more and sped up. Clara could've sworn he was going so fast his legs were blurring together. 

"Not far now, Clara: just around this corner I think- aha!"

They came to an abrupt and jolting halt, Clara swinging her dinner out to the side in time to avoid spilling it down herself. She tilted the plate back, hoping to counter the momentum currently sending her supper sliding towards the edge, and managed to stop it halfway off the plate. She caught it with her fork and flipped it back on with relieved sigh, allowing herself a fork full as a reward for surviving the journey food still intact.

"Where are we?" Clara asked, watching the Doctor enter a code into a keypad on the wall. The TARDIS hummed louder and the door opened.

"Have you ever seen Star Trek?"

"What, like Captain Kirk and Spock? My Mum loved them, we watched every single film. And the TV series." Clara answered wistfully. Her Mum had loved the idea of it- of space, of new worlds and aliens and the human race, spreading through the universes and surviving even when the odds were tipped against them. Her Mum had been a romantic- a trait that she had passed on to Clara in her love of literature.

"Can you remember the Holodecks?"

"Yeah. I always wanted one."

He chuckled, imagining a tiny Clara hanging onto every word said in the franchise, eyes round and in awe at the characters initiating first contact with planets, sharing their technology and trying for peace wherever they went. With a jolt, he realised that this- travelling, here, with him- would've been a dream come true for tiny young Clara. He wondered if he was living up to expectations.

He stepped to the side, letting Clara pass him and enter the simulation he had designed properly. It was identical to the planet they had been hoping to reach that morning, before the TARDIS's power had been drained and they had been stranded facing a wall of dirt. They were on the beach, white sands extending for miles, the jungle a green smudge of paint in the far distance. Baby turtles-or something resembling them, he wasn't really sure what they were- floundered in the sand, squirming their way to the sea, parents in tow. Their picnic blanket was already laid out, a wicker basket filled with beach stuff wedged into the sand next to it. A bottle of sun tan lotion waited for them on the blanket, almost an afterthought; the sun may be artificial, but it could still cause minor sunburn if they were on the beach, unprotected, for too long. He didn't spend much time examining their surroundings: just enough to make doubly sure that he had created the simulation to as much detail as possible. He wanted to watch Clara's reaction. 

She didn't disappoint. Her mouth fell open (a rare occurrence these days, when they had seen so much) and she placed her omelette on the picnic blanket, positioning it carefully so it wouldn't topple over then engulfing him in a huge hug that made his hands sweat nervously and his hearts pound. Clara kissed his cheek then rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling him ever so slightly, and looking at the elated look in her eye and the upturned edges of her mouth, the Doctor thought that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't only met her expectations.

In some ways, he may have exceeded them.


End file.
